Rescuing Lavinia
by Clover Point
Summary: Olivia gets a late night call from Maureen.
1. Default Chapter

  
Title: Rescuing Lavinia.  
Author: Clover Point  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: doesn't do any good.   
Feedback: please.   
  
  
The phone was ringing. Olivia Benson woke, and tentatively opened one eye to glance at the glowing green numbers of her clock. 4:33. Damn. She'd been asleep two hours, but it felt like two seconds.  
  
One arm scouted out from underneath her tangle of blankets to grope on the bedside table for the telephone. She managed to knock it to the floor before grabbing on to it. Sitting up in bed, she lifted the phone into position. This better be good she thought.  
  
A hesitant young voice, distant through the static asked Olivia? Are you there?  
  
Olivia confirmed this, less patiently than she might have.  
  
It's Maureen, the voice continued, can you come get me?  
  
From where, Maureen, where are you? Are you all right? What happened? Do your parents know where you are? Olivia inquired, anxious now. She and Maureen had always been tolerably close, but Elliot's teenage daughter had never called her before. Several years ago, Elliot had asked for permission to give his daughters Olivia's number, to call in an emergency. Olivia had been quick to agree, and pleased that her partner trusted her so much at that relatively early point in their association. Elliot cared about nothing more than he cared about his children and their safety.  
  
I can't tell my parents, Maureen choked back a sob, sniffed loudly, I can't! Just please come get me.  
  
Of course I'll come get you. Take some deep breaths. Try to calm down. Are you somewhere safe, somewhere you can stay until I get there? Or do you want me to send a patrol car?  
  
No! No patrol car! My Dad would find out. I'm safe, now. Just please come get me.  
  
Where are you, Maureen? Can you tell me where you are? Olivia spoke, slowly, carefully, the way she always did to the many frightened, fragile people she encountered.  
  
Maureen gave a downtown intersection. I'm in the phone booth, she added.   
  
A computerized voice interrupted her, asked briskly for more quarters.  
  
I don't have any more! yelped Maureen, panic teasing at the edges of her voice.  
  
That's okay, it's okay. I'll be there in ten minutes. Wait right where you are until I come for you. If you think you're in danger, call 911. Do you understand?  
  
Yes, I..... Don't tell my Dad, okay? Olivia...  
  
They were disconnected. Olivia swung her legs out of bed, and turned on the light. She blinked hard at the quick, painful contraction of her pupils, and reached to the floor for yesterday's jeans. It took her two minutes to get out her door, hair on end, her gun in her holster.  
__________________________________________________  
  
The late night inhabitants of the street scattered like so much startled wildlife as Olivia pulled her car to an authoritative stop at the curb, next to the public telephone. A streetlight shone bleakly onto the dirty and grafittied structure. From the driver's seat, the booth seemed abandoned, empty save for a much abused telephone and a directory missing most of its pages. Acid washed over Olivia's stomach, and made a bid for her throat. She jumped out of the car and snapped her head from side to side, but saw nothing. No Maureen. No one running she could chase through the night, slam against a wall, demand to know what had happened to her partner's daughter, who had called her for help.  
  
Once she rounded her car she realized that the phone booth wasn't empty. She let out a whistling stream of air in relief, before drawing it sharply in again. Maureen was huddled in the corner of the booth, her knees up to her chest. Her head was down, and her golden blond hair glinted dully in the streetlight's vapid glow. Her clothes were dirty and wrinkled. Olivia could tell that the flouncy, sleeveless black blouse and the short white skirt would a short time ago have been worn with confidence and excitement. Now, though, Maureen pulled anxiously against the hem of her skirt, as if cold and embarrassed.   
  
Oh, Maureen....   
  
She smiled weakly, apologetically up at Olivia. It seemed to hurt the bruises on her face, and she stopped smiling, looked away.  
  
Olivia slowly settled herself on her heels, to make eye-contact with Maureen. She closed her eyes, opened them again before speaking.  
  
Come on, honey, let's get you warm.   
  
She settled Maureen in the front seat of her car, a blanket around her shoulders. A few minutes later she was headed for the hospital.  
_____________________________________  
  
Olivia took a sip of warmish, oily coffee and barely succeeded surpressing her gag reflex. She got up from the violently orange and maliciously uncomfortable chair in the waiting room, and walked over to the wastebasket to dispose of her cup.   
  
Maureen hadn't wanted Olivia to come in with her. Olivia had gently laid a hand on her shoulder, offered to call her mother, a counselor, anyone. Maureen had refused, and shuffled off, head down, into room 43A. So, instead, Olivia waited in the room with gray- yellow walls, flickering fluorescent lights and stereotypically out of date magazines.   
  
Upon their arrival, she had managed to rush Maureen right through the line, and had found a doctor she respected. Dr. Sorenson was a extremely competent, yet gentle and reassuring woman in her fifties, and would make it as easy as possible for Maureen, though it could never be anything approaching easy. She and Olivia had worked together in the past, and Olivia had always been impressed by her. Still, she didn't like Maureen being alone.  
  
Her cellphone rang, interrupting her bleak train of thought.  
  
she said, all business.  
  
Hey, Elliot. She tried to keep her voice natural.  
  
She had to swallow hard before she could speak again.  
  
Maureen? I havn't seen her. Why, Elliot, is she missing?  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

Author's note. I know, I know, and I'm ashamed. It really is awfully late. I meant to write a continuation of this story, but other stuff came up, and, well.......I didn't. I appreciated (really very, very much appreciated) all the reviews I got for the first chapter, and I hope at least some of you are still around for the second part. In my defense, I haven't been connected to the internet for months and months, and I did suffer.  
  
Eliot Stabler paced back and forth in his kitchen, fists clenching and unclenching, slowly wearing another fine layer of enamel from his molars. He looked at the phone where it had skittered to a stop on the unimaginative and worn linoleum, by the fridge. As he bent to pick it up, his eyes caught an old picture of his oldest daughter held up by a ladybug magnet. It was taken several years ago, when his daughter still wore her much loathed braces. A moody Maureen grinned out at him form behind the glossy photo finish, a reluctant smile on her lips.  
  
He was suddenly reminded of Kathy, asleep in their bed upstairs. He wondered again about his decision not to wake her; he knew that she would want to be woken. But she needed her rest, and waking her up to worry wouldn't do any good. If she rolled over in the night to find his side of the bed cold, she wouldn't think anything of it.  
  
Damn Maureen for not calling him! She'd promised. His daughter hadn't wanted to promise to call him every night to assure him that she was safe. She'd argued that it defeated the whole purpose of leaving home; of being independent. He'd cajoled and bullied, though, until Maureen had agreed with a roll of her eyes and an indulgent sigh. And until now, she'd never broken her promise.  
  
The phone in his hand, he ran his thumb lightly over the buttons. He held it up to his ear to check for a dial tone, and was half relieved and half disappointed to hear one droning in his ear. Numbers he could call ran through his head, but he knew exactly how seriously he'd be taken by the people on the other end of the phone. They'd ask how long it had been since Maureen went missing, and how old she was. He'd have to tell the truth, and then listen to their condescending, fake-sympathetic responses. They'd tell him that she was all grown up, that he had to stop worrying, that she was certain to turn up soon, and, though not in so many words, to leave them the hell alone so they could help people with real problems. He'd said the same things himself, offered platitudes and maybe even a tinge of sympathy to distraught parents, but no real help. There was nothing that he could do until the worst actually did happen.  
  
He felt his finger dialing a number, muscle memory, and he had to look down to see whose it was. He held the phone up to his ear. Even if there was nothing Olivia could do to find Maureen, she'd listen and take him seriously, and she'd do all she could. He tried to force his voice into some semblance of normalcy.  
  
Hey, Liv.  
  
You haven't by any chance heard from Maureen?  
  
Olivia hung up the phone with a sigh, and slipped it back into her pocket. She wished for some antacids, to settle the guilt in her stomach. Her partner and friend would, inevitably, find out that she'd colluded with his daughter. Elliot would be angry (to put it very mildly). But, really, the best she could to for him would be to encourage Maureen to tell her family when she was ready. When she did, the wrath of Detective Elliot Stabler would be something to behold. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and tried to sink deeper into the uncomfortable hospital hallway chair.  
  
A uniform that Olivia didn't recognize came to pick up the evidence, as Olivia was finishing the oily dregs of her fourth cup of what the hospital optimistically called coffee. A little while later, as Olivia was just starting to doze off, Dr. Sorenson poked her graying head out of the examination room. The women spoke briefly while Maureen got dressed in gray sweatpants and sweatshirt provided by the hospital and several sizes too big. When she emerged hesitantly from behind the examination curtain, eyes dry and jaw clenched, Olivia was suddenly reminded of Elliot. She moved, slowly, to put her arm around Maureen's shoulders, and when she didn't flinch, gave them a gentle squeeze. Maureen leaned against her, head down, her arm around the older woman's waist, as they made their way slowly out of the hospital.  
  
As Olivia pulled her car out of the parking lot, Maureen turned her bruised face to look out the window where stealthy sunlight was creeping its way over the city.  
  
Where are we going now?  
  
Olivia looked at her hunched shoulders, at her messy ponytail.  
  
To a station, so you can give a statement. Seeing Maureen's widened eyes when she turned quickly around, she added Not ours.  
  
How long will it take?  
  
Five hours, maybe six. I wish it didn't, but we have to be really thorough.  
  
Olivia saw Maureen's ponytail bob up and down, saw her reflection bite its lip.  
  
Couldn't you just take me somewhere else?   
  
Olivia sighed. It's important that we get your statement right away, Maureen. After that I promise that I'll make everyone leave you alone for a while.  
  
Maureen let out a burst of hot breath onto the window, and traced patterns in the fog on the window until they arrived at the station.   
  
Olivia stood, arms folded, looking at Maureen through the one way mirror. Another detective, and an A.D.A. she didn't know stood watching, too. The A.D.A. had introduced himself as Michael Carson. He didn't say much, but when he did, he spoke in a soft, hesitant voice that forced Olivia to lean towards him to hear. His hair was plastered to his head with an unpleasant amount of gel, and his tie was festooned with neon pink flamingos that grated on Olivia's nerves.   
  
The other detective, short and thin, except for his incongruous pot belly, had grunted J.M. Thibodeaux at Olivia when he had first come into the room, after which he'd done a toddler's job of ignoring her completely, moving around the darkened observation room as though she weren't there, and managing never to let his gaze fall in her direction while she was watching.   
  
Maureen was hunched in her seat, her body low to the table, looking at a spot on the wall over her interviewer's shoulder. She spoke quickly, in a monotone, answering all the questions she was asked in dispassionate detail. She had been at this already for more than three hours, and Olivia wanted nothing more than to rush in, to stop the interview and to take her partner's daughter away. She winced as the interviewer elicited yet another painful detail from Maureen, and curled her fingers around the table behind her by way of an anchor.  
  
An hour later, Maureen started to cry. She turned her head to look at the glass, eyes searching back and forth as though she could somehow see through the glass.  
  
That's it, announced Olivia. You've got enough; I'm taking her home.  
  
Thibodeaux looked at her for the first time, and quirked a corner of his mouth when she headed for the door, but he didn't move to stop her.


	3. Chapter Three

Author's note. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story so far. You made my week. Oh, and as you can see, I managed to make this update somewhat faster than the last one.

Jean-Marie Thibodeaux scratched the salt and pepper stubble on the side of his face, and down underneath his chin. He didn't really blame Benson. Truth be told, he probably could have been a titch more hospitable. He leaned back in his desk chair, sighed, and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he sighed again, then blew air out between loose lips so that they flapped together.  
  
His partner glared at him over her fashion magazine, then dramatically wiped the spittle from glossy face of the super-thin, super-vacant supermodel who adorned the cover of this month's issue.  
  
J.M. licked his lips, then smacked them loudly, his full attention focused for that moment on a spot on the wall just above his salmon-sweater-set-wearing partner's left shoulder. He tried hard not to let the corners of his mouth twitch. Janet, his partner, had a thing about saliva.   
  
There was a thermos of tepid green tea in his middle desk drawer. Even though it wasn't really hot anymore, when he got it out, he spent a good five minutes blowing loudly over the top of his tea, slopping it over the sides of his mug. He extracted a suspicious looking handkerchief from somewhere about his person, spit on it with great gusto, and rubbed vigorously at the puddles of tea on his desk. He put an expression of mild frustration on his face and cleared his throat, smiling benignly at his partner.  
  
Jan, hon, get me a moist towelette from the bathroom?   
  
He adjusted his expression to one of hopeful expectation, and continued to beam at his partner with a lobotomized gleam in his eyes.  
  
Janet rolled her eyes and muttered an obscenity under her breath just loudly enough for her antagonist to hear, but got a with a great show of reluctance and clickety-clacked on her impractical shoes to the ladies' room with her magazine tucked under her arm.   
  
Thanks, sugar. And remember, guard your delicate ears against gossip on the way!  
  
J.M. allowed himself a brief smirk at the back of his partner before rummaging through his rolodex. He flipped quickly to the S's.  
  
Slowly, he picked up the phone. Leaning away from the phone, as though it might be infectious, he wiped his hand over his face. Then, squinting at the index card, he gently punched in the number. Damn, this was unethical! Well, damn ethics. He'd find out sooner or later, anyway, and it was better sooner than later.  
  
He wasn't really surprised by the speed with which his call was answered. Deciding on a neutral tone, he responded to the voice on the other end of the phone.   
  
Hey, Stabler! It's Thibodeaux....yeah, J.M. I met your partner earlier today. Nice woman....yeah, I'll say. Listen, she was with your daughter.....Nah, man, I can't say any more.....I understand, and I wish I could tell you....I'm sorry...Well, pretty beat up, but okay....I'm sorry, man....Oh, and Stabler? I never called.  
  
He replaced the handset in its cradle with an unnecessary amount of force. When Janet returned , she dropped a bottle of Mr. Clean on his desk, settled down in her chair, and went back to her reading.

Olivia turned her key in the lock, pushed the door open, and quickly flipped on the light, and was pleasantly surprised to find her apartment more than minimally presentable. She stepped back from the door to usher Maureen into the apartment.   
  
Forcing a smile to her face, Olivia motioned Maureen to the couch. Maureen sat, leaned back, letting one hand fall over her stomach, and the other diagonally across her lap. She lolled her head back and closed her eyes. Her hair fanned out, golden and delicate against the dark fabric in which Olivia had had her couch upholstered. Her throat fluttered in time with her eyelashes.  
  
One dead bolt thunked into place, and then another. Olivia slid the chain into its track, and jiggled it to make sure it was secure. Metal rasped against metal.   
  
Olivia shrugged to herself, then asked Are you hungry?  
  
Maureen didn't open her eyes; didn't move.  
  
Would you like something to eat?  
  
  
  
Something to drink?  
  
  
  
Well, I'm hungry. I'm going to make spaghetti. Would you like tomato sauce from the can, or pesto, from the little plastic container?  
  
Maureen smiled wryly.   
  
Twenty minutes later, Olivia brought Maureen her meal. They both ignored the ringing of the phone, until Maureen walked over to it, and, with a nervous glance at Olivia, unplugged it.  
  
Olivia set her cellphone on the coffee table, where they were eating, but turned the volume down.  
  
She glanced at the phone every now and then, and saw calls from a familiar number piling up.  
  
He's worried about you, you know.  
  
I know.  
  
I don't want you to feel pressured, but it would be good if you called him. He loves you, Maureen.  
  
Maureen nodded her head, and looked down at her food. She twirled some more spaghetti onto her fork, then slipped it into her mouth. Tomato sauce caught on the corner of her mouth, and she wiped it away with a paper napkin, which she crumpled in her hand. She didn't say anything.

Eliot slammed the phone down, saw the crack in the plastic, and didn't care. He'd tried all her numbers as many times as he was willing to try them.  
  
Kathy looked at him and raised her eyebrows, stretching the dark circles under her eyes up at the corners. She ran her hand over her hair, pulling limp blonde strands momentarily upwards.  
  
Kathy suddenly looked her husband dead in the eyes. Damn her, she pronounced, slowly, calmly.  
  
said Eliot. He didn't ask her who she meant.

Can I take a shower?  
  
Olivia nodded, Down the hall to the left. I'll get you a clean towel.  
  
She emerged over half an hour later, her wet hair hanging in stringy clumps around her face, and Olivia's sweatpants rolled up around her ankles. Her feet left wet footprints on the hardwood floor. She sat down on the sofa, looked at Olivia, who was sitting on the floor next to the coffee table with her legs crossed, flipping through a case file.   
  
I can sleep on the couch, right?  
  
Maureen looked away before the detective continued, You can sleep in the bed. I made it up for you. Of course, if you don't want to sleep there, I'd be more than willing to take you home.  
  
Maureen sighed, and smiled with the lower half of her face. I just.....can't. Not right now. Maybe in a little while.  
  
Olivia reached up slowly to put her hand on her partner's daughter's I understand. She squeezed lightly. Would you like to talk?  
  
Maureen looked away.  
  
Would you like to watch some TV? She handed her the remote control, and pushed herself up to sit on the couch.  
  
My Fair Lady was on, and they lost themselves in the saccharine cheerfulness for a while.   
  
They woke up an hour later to the sound of pounding on the door. 


	4. Chapter Four

Author's note: I just can't seem to get it together with the regular updates, can I? Oh, well. Thanks once again for your patience. And another very big thank-you to everyone who has reviewed this story. It's been wonderful. Keep em coming.  
  
As the defendant was testifying, the courtroom dissolved into disorder, and Maureen wilted against Olivia's shoulder in defeat. A large woman in a garish floral print dress and an ill thought out perm, stood up and started shouting about a blender. The audience broke out into frenzied applause. In indignant response, the judge started banging her gavel, quietly at first, and then with increasing volume and frequency. It was giving Olivia a headache. It took five minutes for a particularly loud bang of the gavel to jar Olivia awake.  
  
Maureen was still sleeping, her head resting on the older woman's shoulder. Olivia wondered why the gavel was still banging if she were awake; it took her a few seconds to realize that someone was knocking on the door, and be profoundly annoyed by that fact.  
  
She opened her eyes and tilted her head up a few inches, careful not to disturb her couch mate. The only light in the room came from the yellow-green flickering of the television set, where an infomercial was in progress; a vaguely Star Trekish blender was being hyped to an audience which must have been specially brought in from a brain damage ward.  
  
The knocking was keeping her from thinking straight. Olivia reached for the remote on the coffee table and muted the sound on the television, wished she could do the same to the very loud person at the door.  
  
Open the door, Olivia!  
  
Olivia moaned softly to herself, and gently pushed Maureen off her shoulder and onto the headrest of the couch. Maureen mumbled something in her sleep, and scrunched her face up. Her hands clenched themselves into fists, and her toes curled.  
  
Olivia tentatively laid a hand on Maureen head, and smoothed her hair down. She shushed her until she saw her relax.  
  
After giving her eyes a few seconds to adjust themselves to the dark, she padded over to her front door and glanced quickly through the peephole. She could make out a distorted, cartoonish version of her partner, red faced, eyes narrowed, working his jaw in time with his fist on the door.  
  
Open the damn door!  
  
She unlocked her dead bolts with a thud, but kept the chain on the door. She yanked the door open as far as the chain would allow and jerked her face to the crack. The sudden contrast in light made her blink. When she could see again, she was starring at her partner's face, inches away. He was breathing through his mouth; hot gusts of air were crashing onto her face. He stopped his fist inches from colliding with the door.  
  
She raised her eyebrows at him and pressed her lips tightly together. A headache was knocking hard at her temples, waiting to be let in.  
  
Keep your voice down. You'll wake her up.  
  
Clenching and unclenching his fists, Elliot looked away, and tried to let at least some of his anger out in a steady stream of air.  
  
Open this door, now. He was no longer shouting. He paused. Please. I need to see her.  
  
Olivia bit her bottom lip, and then looked straight into her partner's face.  
  
No. She doesn't want to see you, Elliot.  
  
He looked straight back at her, face blank and set. Then I'd get back if I were you.  
  
Before she'd had time to think about it properly, Olivia jumped back, and her door exploded inwards. She saw splinters and paint chips on her floor. She looked at her chain, formerly keeping her door securely closed, now dangling uselessly from the doorframe. The bang of the door landing bounced around in her ears, and she could feel the vibrations traveling up her legs to her knees. Elliot's foot hung in the air for a few seconds before he slowly lowered it and stepped inside the apartment. He stood just inside the threshold.  
  
Olivia's reverie was broken by the sound of a high-pitched shriek. Maureen had ejected herself from the couch, and was standing beside it, screaming and crying. Tears and mucus were running over her face, and off the edge of her mouth in a gooey waterfall.  
  
Oh, sweetheart..... Elliot took two steps towards his daughter, she backed up, and tripped over the coffee table. She fell backwards, her clothes landed in a heap on the floor, and she landed with them. In a while, she would have fresh bruises. She really didn't need any more.  
  
Olivia moved between her partner and his daughter. She crossed her arms over her stomach, looked down, and uncrossed them. She angled her chin upwards.  
  
Leave. Now.  
  
Get out of my way. Elliot took another step forward. He didn't noticed that he'd made his hands into fists, but Maureen was staring at them, and Olivia stole a glance every few seconds, when she wasn't looking at his face.  
  
The unplugged phone caught her eye, and she wished for a second that it were still connected.  
  
Elliot took one more step forward; Olivia found herself almost taking a step back. Instead, she stumbled, but righted herself, planting her feet wider apart and squaring her shoulders.  
  
One more step forward and Elliot's boots were almost touching his partner's bare toes. He could smell tomato sauce on her breath, and see the wet spots on her t-shirt where Maureen's wet hair had been. She could see the stubble on his face, and the bags under his eyes.  
  
He saw her swallow, three times, hard.  
  
I'm taking my daughter home. Get out of my way.  
  
She noticed that the vein in his forehead was pumping with unusual speed, it was the only thing moving on his body, like a hyperactive caterpillar crawling on a statue. She sighed, and slowly reached a hand for his arm, then withdrew it before touching him. I am sorry. But the best thing for you to do right now is to leave.  
  
Elliot jerked his head to the side and grinned. Olivia had seen him use that grin before, many times, but never on her.  
  
He spat the words out at her. You had no right! How could you do that? You lied to me. You lied to me and you betrayed me. She's my daughter, she's in the worst trouble of her life, and you lied to me like it was nothing. You don't answer my calls. Do you have any idea what that was like for me? No, of course not. You couldn't understand. But I'm telling you one last time, get out of my way, I'm taking my daughter home.  
  
Olivia drew her head back slightly, and her eyes widened despite her. There was a long moment of stillness, broken by Maureen's gentle sniffing.  
  
She started to say I can't let you do that, but she was cut off before she could finish. A brief flash of something came towards her, and she tried to move with it, but his fist still connected hard. The force of it knocked her on the floor and left her sprawled on her side.  
  
Looking up at him she opened her mouth. It hurt. She couldn't think of anything to say, she thought her jaw might be broken. With effort, she closed her mouth again, and looked up at her partner. His face was still red, and he was breathing as hard as she was. He looked at her for a short eternity. With a last look at his daughter, who was now completely silent, Elliot turned around and walked out of the apartment.  
  
Light from the doorway landed in a pale fluorescent rectangle on the floor, wavy over Olivia's ankles and feet. She probed her jaw with two fingers and decided that it wasn't broken.  
  
Maureen was looking at her, their eyes were level now. The younger woman licked her lips, then slowly pulled herself upright. She walked over to Olivia and offered her a hand. Come on, she said, I'll get you some ice.  
  
Olivia took her hand, but didn't pull too hard as she stood up. You'd better wash your face, she said, and brushed at the tear tracks on Maureen's face with her thumb.  
  
They walked together into the kitchen. Olivia flicked on the light.


	5. Chapter Five

Author's note: I know that some people were offended by the last chapter, and for that I'm sorry. I hope that I haven't caused anyone to stop reading. If anyone would like an explanation of my thinking and my process, just email me, and I'd be happy to send you one (though it may be fairly convoluted). With that said, on with the story, and thank you for reading. Oh, and the title, in case you've been wondering, is an allusion to Shakepeare's play "Titus Andronicus."

"No, I'm sorry, I really can't come in on, Captain, you know how many sick and vacation days I've got stacked up....No, I know that Elliot's not coming in, either....No, the rumors are true...Yeah, me too...Thanks for understanding. I'll keep in touch."

Olivia replaced the receiver in it's cradle as though it were full of lead. She noted the heavy click with satisfaction. Her reflection caught in her hallway mirror; her bruise was coming along nicely.

Maureen was asleep again, finally, curled up under too many blankets in Olivia's bed. When Olivia had turned the clock away from her, the red numbers where glowing 5:00 am in a little pool on the night table, spilling over onto a three-quarter empty bottle of sleeping pills and and a glass of water with perfect, sweaty fingerprints. Maureen's eyes were racing frantically behind her eyelids. Her eyelashes were gummy and clumped together.

They'd sat together in the kitchen for close to an hour, not saying much, sipping mugs of very sweet tea that Olivia had made. The bottoms of the mugs were thick and sticky with honey, Maureen had tilted her head back and stuck her tongue out, letting the honey trickle down her throat. She'd giggled, and stopped abruptly.

Olivia went to her hallway closet, dragged out an extra blanket from somewhere, and brought it and the pillow she'd snagged from her bed over to the couch, which was only really slightly less long than she was tall. She settled herself on her side, with her legs curled. They'd probably be cramped by morning, and the springs in the couch were not what they once had been.

She lay for a long time staring at the wall. Her eyelids were as heavy as grand pianos, but they wouldn't close. Out the window, through the blinds, she could see that the sun was starting to rise, casting cloyingly sweet pastel colours on the clouds.

Her sweatshirt caught on something climbing through the window and onto the fire escape. The metal was cold on her bare feet. She ran her fingers lightly over her upper arms, tickling the goose bumps and the hairs standing on end. Vigorous rubbing did little to warm her up; she wished absently for a sweater, but didn't move. Her eyes felt warm and gummy, and contrasted sharply with the crispness of the breeze on her skin.

Elliot sat in a dark room. He could hear his kids yelling and fighting downstairs, though at a lower volume that was their usual practice. They probably hadn't wondered why he wasn't eating dinner with them,

He wondered if he'd broken her jaw. His recollection was so clear, so sharp that it cut. Someone knocked on the door, probably Kathy. Two or three polite raps were followed by a brief silence in which Elliot hoped that whoever was there would go away. The doorknob jiggled, but the door was locked and didn't open, and he didn't turn around. The square of light at his feet vacillated as the transparent curtains in the window he was facing blew in the wind. He held his hands out, and examined the bruises on his knuckles. He flexed them, and grimaced. He flexed them again, pushing past the stiffness and into not enough pain.

He was almost certain that he'd broken her jaw.

"Oh, God," he whispered, and then once more, louder.

He thought that he might vomit, as he had done earlier, kneeling on the bathroom floor, gripping the toilet and emptying his guts in a foul-tasting acidic stream. He'd brushed his teeth, and spit blood, the remnants of vomit, and minty fresh foam into the sink.

Now, sitting in the dark, he lead forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

When Maureen got up, she noticed the tangled blanket on the sofa and the pillow on the floor beside it. The straggling fog from the pills was cleared by the breeze from the open window. When she walked over to close it she saw Olivia, standing on the fire escape. Through the window, Maureen saw that her host had her forearms resting on the railing of the fire escape, and her head tilted up into the air. One ankle was crossed over the other, the sole of one foot was pointing up. Maureen thought that she looked cold, and wrapped her own blanket more securely around her body, gripping the fabric tightly and curling her fingers around and inward to seal herself in against the cold air.

She stood still for a long time, twitching her toes as light crept grimly across the floor. Finally, she sighed, and shook herself. She padded over the kitchen, and found milk in the fridge. Several deep gulps finished the carton. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and slipped the blanket off her shoulders. After folding it neatly, she placed it carefully over the back of a kitchen chair.

The door of the fridge pulled open again with a pop. Among its meager contents were the makings of a rudimentary omelet: eggs, butter, milk, onions, mushrooms, cheese. They made a percarious bundle in her arms. She slid them out onto the counter. A frying pan sitting on top of the stove was quickly wiped out and placed onto the stove, which was already heating up. Butter sizzled and slid around, and cracked when chopped and beaten ingredients were poured on top of it. It was ready in a couple minutes, still slightly wet, and Maureen awkwardly maneuvered it onto plates from the dish rack. A short exploration produced two forks, and glasses into which she poured slightly suspect orange juice.

A plate in each hand, she padded out of the kitchen.

In the bedroom, the clock radio turned itself on, slowly leaking the morning's slurry of inanity and violence into the apartment.

To Maureen it was just background buzzing which disappeared as she reached the window, and got herself through by taking oddly high steps and holding the two plates far out from her body, wedging the forks in a crook of her right thumb, and leaving the glasses of orange juice balanced just so on the window sill.

Olivia didn't turn around untill Maureen cleared her throat and put one of the plates down to tap her gently on the shoulder. The younger women extended a plate of quickly cooling omelette, which Olivia accepted with a smile which hurt her jaw. Maureen handed her a fork, then spun around to grab the juice. The women settled down, side by side, just touching, their backs against the cold and rough building, and ate their breakfast in silence. The sun trudged on, and the day got brighter, but no warmer.

Maureen shivered, and they went inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: I doubt anyone cares anymore (it's been a very, very long time since I've updated this story) but I'm procrastinating about an essay (several essays, actually) and so here goes another update. Feedback is always appreciated, cherished, fondled, etc.

But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn

Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.

Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,

It would have madded me; what shall I do

Now I behold thy lovely body so?

Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,

Nor tongue to tell me who martyred thee.

-- Titus, Titus Andronicus, Act 3, Scene 1

The first time Maureen went to see the therapist was a week and a half after the night she'd called Olivia from the phone booth.

Olivia had found the therapist, made her an appointment, and driven her to the building at ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning. They'd sad idling in her car, Maureen starring unseeing out the window, Olivia tapping her fingers arhythmically on the steering wheel, shifting slightly in her seat. She glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror, stretched the skin of her jaw with her tongue, a habit she was only half aware she'd picked up. Her face was much better, only a memory of tenderness, and a gentle shadow of a bruise that could have been a trick of the light.

"Do you remember the room number?"

"Yes."

"Would you like me to walk you up?"

"No."

"I'll be here when you're done."

Maureen slammed the door with more force than was necessary. She did not look back at the car. She made her way through the glass doors of the office building, not making eye-contact with anyone. The tag of her t-shirt was sticking up at the nape of her neck, and her socks didn't match, though they came close. Her jeans were clean, mostly, but had a new tendency to slip down off her waist.

While waiting in the office, after quietly identifying herself to the receptionist, Maureen starred fixedly at the large fish tank burbling quietly to itself in the corner of the waiting room. The fish slipped with casual ease in and out of tacky ornaments at the bottom of the tank. A snail slimed in lazy cuneiform along the delicately algaed glass.

Maureen jumped when someone cleared her throat to get her attention. A middle aged woman smiled at her, greeted her by name, and extended her hand to be shaken. Maureen took her up on her offer without enthusiasm, and for a time slightly shorter than the minimum of social acceptability. The woman had unselfconsciously gray hair that stuck up from her head at odd angles, but with the exception of her hair, and some glasses on a beaded string comfortably nestled in the same, she was otherwise neatly groomed and professionally dressed. She led Maureen down a corridor towards he office. Maureen kept her head down, and followed the scuffle and clicking of shoes over linoleum.

The woman opened a large, heavy door at the end of the corner, and closed it again after Maureen had gone through. She sat in a leather office chair, arranged herself comfortably. Her legs were crossed and her hands were clasped over her knees. A crisp, blank legal pad sat on her desk, with a capped bic sitting on top of it at a 45 degree angle to the lines. Her chair was pointed towards Maureen, who, slightly slumped, played with a thread that was threatening to come loose from the hem of her t-shirt. There was a pigeon on the window sill, strutting around importantly. The hem of the t-shirt puckered more and more until the thread finally snapped. Maureen rolled it back and forth between her fingers, it fluttered around like a tiny insect trapped and in distress, in its dying throes.

The pigeon on the window sill flew off. The therapist smiled. Maureen did not.

They sat.

Finished with the thread, Maureen let it go of the thread. It drifted downward in an erratically elegant spiral, and touched down lightly and finally on the institutional gray carpet.

Maureen spoke.

Olivia watched Maureen as she disappeared into the building, and sat starring at the place where she had last been for some time beyond that.

She reached to flick on the radio, stabbed at the scan button a few times, and then turned it off again. She ran her fingers through her hair, and then spent some time fixing the resulting mess in the rear view mirror, without great success.

She looked up at a window near where she imagined Maureen might be. A pigeon swooped down off the building and executed a landing on the sidewalk near her car. It began a bobble-headed walk up and down and in circles. Olivia imagined that it was cooing.

With a decisive flick of her wrist she set brought her car to life, and set out into traffic, reasoning that she had the best chance of arriving at her destination if she didn't think about it too much while she was getting there. She turned the radio on again, and focused on that.

Detective. Elliot Stabler was not starring at the clock on the wall, nor at the watch on his wrist. He was not drinking the lukewarm, yet frighteningly strong coffee in front of him, nor was he eating the muffin on a slightly chipped saucer near which did not match the coffee cup.

He was waiting. It was usually something he was good at, a skill he had been forced to learn in the army and which he had had the chance to perfect during years of stakeouts.

He had a good view of the window from where he was sitting, and he was able to scrutinize every car that passed that could be Olivia's, and look at every woman who went passed who could be her.

So it was odd that he didn't notice her until she was sitting across from him, arms crossed in front of him, sardonic smile on her lips.


End file.
